


every road you take will lead you home

by youareiron_andyouarestrong



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, Childhood Friends, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2015-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-06 10:34:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4218426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youareiron_andyouarestrong/pseuds/youareiron_andyouarestrong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mrs. Temple smelled of lemons and chile, called Matt “mijito lindo” after the first few minutes he’d been to her house, and had snacks of tortillas and beans. Their apartment was about the same size as Matt’s, but a lot cleaner and smelled strongly of the Fabuloso Mrs. Temple used to clean the floors, but Matt rather liked it. She chattered casually in both Spanish and English, switching back and forth between the two, let Matt hold his cane as long as he needed and forgot that Matt wasn’t one of her children half the time. He liked her very much.</p><p>Her daughter Claire was another matter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I'll tell you all about it when I see you again

After the accident, Matt’s dad started worrying, even more. Matt knew this because his heartbeat would elevate, he would shift back and forth on his feet like he was in the ring even if he wasn’t, and his hands would pass over Matt’s hair more and more often, gently tracing the shape of his head.

Finally, his dad had to sit down with Matt and have a talk. “Look,” Jack Murdock said anxiously, “you know I want for you to be independent, right? Especially now?”

Matt nodded. He did know, even though his dad still worried. “I know you don’t like bein’ babysat,” Jack continued. “But I’ve asked Mrs. Temple from down on Fifth Street if it’s okay if you go to her house after school. And she said yes.”

“Dad—” Matt started, but Jack wouldn’t budge. 

“She’s a nice lady Matt, and she’s got three kids of her own,” he went on determinedly. “You wouldn’t be lonely.”

_I_ like _being alone,_ Matt wanted to say, but that would only make his dad worry more. So he didn’t say anything.

“I know you don’t like it, Mattie,” said Jack gently. “But I would feel a lot better knowin’ if you had someone lookin’ out for you if I’m not around.  You can do that for me, yeah? For your old man.”

Matt blew out his breath. _For dad,_ he told himself. “Okay dad,” he said quietly, finally. “Okay.” And his father’s hands passed over his head, callouses snagging on his hair.

* * *

 

Mrs. Temple smelled of lemons and chile, called Matt “ _mijito lindo”_ after the first few minutes he’d been to her house, and had snacks of tortillas and beans. Their apartment was about the same size as Matt’s, but a lot cleaner and smelled strongly of the _Fabuloso_ Mrs. Temple used to clean the floors, but Matt rather liked it. She chattered casually in both Spanish and English, switching back and forth between the two, let Matt hold his cane as long as he needed and forgot that Matt wasn’t one of her children half the time. He liked her very much.

Her daughter Claire was another matter.

Claire smelled of lavender and coconut, hair tightly pulled back in thick braids, spoke very loud and fast Spanish and bossed Matt within an inch of his life. She insisted they play house if they were done with their homework (she always finished before him because it took Matt longer with his Braille textbooks and _wouldn’t stop pestering_ ), held his _hand_ when if they ever went outside together (which was fairly often, they had a park nearby their complex) and seemed to think he was a wounded animal she could nurse back to health.

Their fights were loud and often.

“Quit playing with my hair,” growled Matt as she stood behind him one afternoon.

“But you have such nice hair,” she protested, pulling her fingers through the strands. “Can I braid it?”

“ _No,”_ Matt said, appalled. “Go play with your little brother, will you?”

He could her braids bouncing as she tossed her hair disdainfully. “He’s too little to play with,” she informed him. “He’s still in the crib.”  A thoughtful pause. “If you let me play with your hair, I’ll stop bothering you.”

“YOU _ARE_ BOTHERING ME,” Matt said and the cycle would begin again.

Mrs. Temple seemed to think their fights were hilarious and more than once, Matt heard the running click of a camera.   Eventually, Mrs. Temple would take pity on Matt and say something like, “ _Ay, mija,_ leave the boy alone, let him study,” and Claire would huff and flounce off. Matt told himself he was glad of the quiet and he _wasn’t_ lonely, thank you very much.

But…there were some good parts. Like how Claire let him hold baby Marcus and showed him how to jump rope. That was the funny thing about the Temples. They all knew he was blind, but none of them ever treated Matt like he was incapable. Mr. Temple always asked after Matt’s dad’s fights and his training was going, Mrs. Temple insisted on sending Matt home with food most nights, Claire’s oldest brother Ezekiel called him “little man” affectionately and ruffled Matt’s hair. Coming back to his quiet, dark apartment in the evening was no longer Matt’s favorite part of the day.

Mrs. Temple came, after Jack’s last fight. She came to the alley herself, brushed the policemen aside and picked Matt up like he was a baby, making soft, shushing noises. Matt clung to her for dear life, gasping for air as the world spiraled senselessly around him. For the life of him, Matt never remembered how they made it back to her apartment. He remembered her taking off his socks and shoes, tucking him into Claire’s bed murmuring, “ _Porbrecito, porbrecito mijito lindo_ Matthew.”

He was pretty sure Ms. and Mrs. Temple, along with Father Lantom from their church, made the arrangements for Jack’s funeral.  He only realized this later, when the dreadful dull fog of grief had passed a little, when everything wasn’t _so loud_ and driving him crazy.

He stayed with the Temples for a little while after the funeral, about two weeks. He curled up small and tight as he could in Claire’s bed, the sheets scraping his skin, every noise and gesture sounding like alarm bells in his head.

Claire tried talking to him. She placed her hands on his cheek and sang songs in Spanish and tried to tell him what baby Marcus did today and what Ezekiel did and what the kids at school were doing, but Matt couldn’t listen. The smell of coconut oil was beginning to nauseate him.

Finally, a social worker came. Matt could hear her tapping one foot against the linoleum of the kitchen as she (not very patiently) explained to Mrs. Temple why Matt couldn’t stay with them.

“He’s a ward of the state,” she said, the smell of cheap leather pumps sharp in Matt’s nose.  “We’re trying to contact his mother so she can take custody of him, but in the meantime, he has to go to the orphanage. There’s one right here in Hell’s Kitchen, St. Agnes.”

He could hear Mrs. Temple’s hands tightening together. “I know it,” she said evenly. “Most people do. But I really don’t think a boy like Matt should be sent there.”

A put upon sigh. “Mrs. Temple, it’s admirable you want to house him,” the social worker said. “But you would need to become foster parents, and that’s a long, complicated, not to mention expensive process. His mother could show up in the middle of it and take him out of your hands entirely. It’s better this way.”

Mrs. Temple shifted back and forth in her seat. “I’ll talk it over with my husband.”

Matt rolled over. It wouldn’t matter. He was going to leave anyway.

Claire came later. Matt wasn’t sure when, exactly. Time seemed to crawl horribly and spin by too fast all at once.

She crouched by his head, hidden under the sheet. “I talked to Sister Mary Catherine today,” she told him. “At church. She said she’d pray for your dad.”

Matt didn’t move his head in acknowledgment, but that never stopped Claire before. “She says she knows your dad made it into heaven, even if he didn’t go to church all the time,” she persisted. “Because he loved you that much.”

_I loved him too,_ Matt thought. _And look what happened.  Look what I did._

“I told the Sister you were really sad,” Claire told him, edging closer, the sound of her clothes and hair moving scraped in his ears.  “She said you would get better if you—”

Unable to bear it, Matt let his hands drop from his ears. “I _don’t_ want to get better,” he said as loudly as he could. “I want you to _leave me alone!”_

He heard her wounded intake of breath, felt heat pouring off her cheeks, the sudden thundering of heartbeat. “Fine,” she said in a small, tight voice. _“Fine! Be_ that way, you—you— _desagradecido_!”   

She stormed off, the slamming of the door sounded like the end of the world in Matt’s ears.

* * *

 

He went to St. Agnes two days later, regret and sorrow pouring off the Temples like rain. Mr. Temple squeezed his shoulder, Mrs. Temple kissed his forehead and cheeks, murmuring, “ _Lo siento, Matteo, lo siento_.”

Claire wasn’t there.

It would be a very long time before he could smell lavender or coconut oil without a strange prickling in his eyes.

* * *

 

_Twelve years later_

The communal kitchen of the University of Columbia’s dorms was not known for much actual _cooking_ happening on the premises.  Not in Matt’s recollection, anyway. The smell from the microwave alone made his skin crawl.  He was pretty sure someone tried cooking up meth there once, though Foggy insisted it was sugar cookies. Matt took his chances with the school’s cafeteria.

 So at three in the morning, the last thing anyone would expect to smell (or come from it) was…chocolate chip cookies?

Vanilla, sugar, butter, _real_ butter, chocolate chips, eggs and…cornstarch?  Flour and something distinctive and flowery.

Lavender and coconut oil.

Matt let his Braille textbook slide out of his fingers. Foggy was out like a light in his own bed, his deep, regular snoring steady as metronome in Matt’s ears. Rising to his feet, Matt grabbed his sunglasses from his bedside table and slipped out of the room soundlessly, just remembering to grab his cane from by the door. Tapping quietly down the hallway and stairwell, Matt made his way to kitchen.

Lavender and coconut oil, generic body wash, the stretch of cotton and polyester from…yoga pants, he was pretty sure. A warm, earthy voice humming quietly: _“Well now when I get the blues, gonna get me a rockin’ chair, when the blues overtake me, gonna rock right away from here…”_ Rocking back and forth on heels, rhythmic tapping, the scrape of a whisk against a china bowl. “ _Give me one last kiss and hold it a long, long time. Give me one last kiss; hold it a long, long time. Well, hold that kiss ‘til I feel it in my head like wine.”_ A quiet huff of laughter.

Matt stepped into the kitchen. It was much pleasanter to dwell on the immediate smell sugar, chocolate and vanilla than the underlying smells of stale food, crusted over _who knew what_ on the stove, and the overflowing garbage can in the corner. Though he could smell dish soap and hear the drip of clean plates on the counter. Someone had cleaned here, recently.

The girl—definitely a girl—singing stopped abruptly in the middle of her verse, spinning on one heel elegantly. “ _Flip, flop fly, I don’t care if I die—_ oh! Sorry, didn’t mean to…” Her voice trailed off, clearly taking in his cane and dark glasses.

“Its fine,” he said easily, “You didn’t wake me; I just smelled the cookies.”

“Oh,” she said, he heard a flutter like butterfly’s wings as she blinked. “Sorry, they’re for a fundraiser. The kitchen in my own dorm _sucks_.” He could imagine her glancing around disdainfully, with a toss of her head. The sudden waft of coconut oil in her hair made his head spin. “Not that this is any better, honestly,” she added frankly. “I can’t _stand_ working in a dirty kitchen, I had to scrub the counter before I did anything, what is it with college kids that they can’t even perform basic cleaning?” She sounded completely exasperated and the threads of Matt’s memory were being pulled in a direction they hadn’t gone in in a very long time.

He felt his way to the table and lowered himself into an open chair. “Which dorm is yours?”

“The one near the nursing school. That’s where I go,” she said, turning to put a spoon into the bowl. Wood burned and stained from oil scraped against the sides. “I’m a nursing student, on a scholarship.” She was quick to point out these details, as if they might matter.

“Law student, myself,” he offered. “I’m on a scholarship too.”

Her shoulders relaxed, the stretch of her lips into what he assumed was a smile. “I’m from Hell’s Kitchen,” she added, clearly waiting for his reaction.

“So am I,” he told her and she released a sigh of what sounded like relief.

“Thank god,” she said, shaking her head. “I kept hearing that there was someone else from there on campus, but I never ran into them.” A tap against the rim of the bowl, the mixture of flour, butter, sugar falling back in.  “It’s nice to meet someone from home. I’m Claire Temple by the way,” she said casually. “What’s your name?”

He had to catch his breath, blink rapidly, glad for the shield of his glasses. “Matt Murdock,” he said softly and he heard her freeze and turn around slowly. “I’m Matt Murdock,” he said again.

The spoon was dropped abruptly on the counter with a clatter. “Matt—Matt _Murdock?”_ she asked, her voice sharp with disbelief.  She crossed the floor over to him in one smooth rush of movement, her hands outstretched, and then halted abruptly. “Um—”

With a waver in his fingers that was only perceptible to himself, he reached up and pulled off his glasses, heard her sharp intake of breath again for the first time in twelve years. Cool fingers that smelled like vanilla and chocolate reached up and touched the corners of his eyes without hesitation. “It _is_ you,” she said wonderingly. “I’d know those eyes anywhere.”  

The moment hung in the air like a note from a song newly remembered and then—Claire smacked his shoulder, _hard._

“Ow!” he exclaimed as she said exasperatedly, “My mother has spent the last twelve years _worried sick_ about you! Did you ever think to come back and tell us you were _alive?”_

“How was I to know?” he protested. “Didn’t they keep you updated on my status or something?”

“They never told us anything about you!” Claire snapped. “Because we weren’t _family._ ” He could hear the familiar sound of her toe tapping impatiently. “Why didn’t you come back to see us?” she asked him, her voice gone suddenly quiet. “Mom and I spent _hours_ worried about you.”

“I—” Matt floundered, “I—I don’t know. It—it never occurred to me,” he admitted and Claire sniffed once, deep in disapproval.

“Well,” she said, hands on her hips in a stance he could remember and picture very well, “we have dinner every Sunday night. You’re welcome to come to that, if you want.”

* * *

 

“Dude,” Foggy said the next morning, “where did these cookies come from?”

“An old friend,” Matt replied and it surprised him how easily the words left his mouth.

* * *

 

Mrs. Temple moved slower than he remembered, the creak of joints more evident in his ears, but she still smelled like lemons and chile, the Temple apartment smelled like _Fabuloso_ and Mrs. Temple cried when Claire led him in. Matt had time to lift his cane out of the way her embrace as she wrapped her arms around him, a whole head shorter than himself. “ _Ay,_ Matthew,” she said, taking his face between her hands, the smell of salt and dampness clear in his nose, “ _Ay, mijo,_ we missed you. Look how you’ve grown, _mijito_.”

“So they tell me,” he said with a smile and he heard Claire snort softly behind him. “It’s really nice to see you again, Mrs. Temple,” he added sincerely.

The sounds and smells of the Temples’ kitchen filled his ears: Chiles and rice and beans, flour and corn tortillas rising on the _comal._ Matt could feel himself slipping into a pattern long forgotten since his childhood. “Matthew, tell me about your classes,” Mrs. Temple commanded, ladling more food onto his plate, more food than he’d eaten in one week. “You are going to be a lawyer?”

“Yes ma’am,” Matt said automatically. “I hope to be, anyway.”

“You are eating enough? You’re too skinny,” she said in a disapproving air amazingly similar to Claire’s.

“He’s not gonna be like that for long, Ma, you keep giving him food like that,” said Claire, her voice rich with amusement.

“Let the boy _eat_ , Lupe,” rumbled Mr. Temple from his spot at the head of the table. “And sit down yourself.”

“I’m almost done,” protested Mrs. Temple and Claire and Marcus (not a baby anymore, now fourteen years old) chorused together, “You’re _never_ done Ma,” and Mrs. Temple shook her wooden spatula at them threateningly.

News about the family filled his ears. Ezekiel was in the armed forces now; Marcus was starting high school in the fall. As the meal passed, Matt wasn’t sure if he hadn’t suddenly become nine years old again when Mrs. Temple said suddenly, “Claire, do you remember all the times you and Matt fought?”

Matt was careful to keep his face blank as Claire said dryly, “Yes, Ma, I remember. He was very stubborn.”

“ _You_ were a pest,” Matt replied mildly.

“I wouldn’t have _been_ a pest if you’d paid any attention to me,” Claire retorted. “Honestly, you were the only kid my age around the apartment.”

“The two of you were so adorable,” said Mrs. Temple reminiscently. “I always thought you would make a cute couple.”

“ _Ma,”_ said Claire through her teeth as Matt felt the temperature around her rise—or maybe that was just him. “Cut it out.”

“Lupe,” said Mr. Temple mildly.

“I’m just _saying, mija,_ ” said Mrs. Temple innocently. “When was the last time you had a boyfriend?”

“I’m too busy with school to have a boyfriend, Ma,” said Claire, with the air someone who has had this conversation multiple times and expects to have it again. “Matt’s going to be even busier than me,” she added as Matt tried very hard to keep his face straight. “He’s going to law school after graduation.”

“Our Matthew, going to be lawyer,” said Mrs. Temple, her voice filled with fond pride. “Who is your roommate, Matt?”

“Franklin Nelson, ma’am,” Matt told her. “He’s from Hell’s Kitchen too.”

“Nelson,” she repeated. “They run the hardware store, don’t they? And one of the butcher stores too, I think.”

“Yes ma’am,” Matt said with a smile. “I spend the holidays with them most years.”

“Good,” said Mrs. Temple in a tone of great satisfaction. “I will send them _tamales_ this year, I usually do.”

Matt ended up going back to Columbia with Claire with his arms piled high with containers of food, with the admonition to come see them again and soon. Mrs. Temple had kissed his cheek; Mr. Temple had shaken his hand fondly and hugged him.  

“No escape for you now,” Claire told him, humor in her voice and little bit of satisfaction.

“I think I’m okay with that,” Matt admitted and Claire had hummed a light tune in the dark.

* * *

 

College passed, interspersed with visits to the Temples, during the summers and spring breaks. He and Claire, equally busy, seemed to dance around an inclination towards each other that never seemed to go beyond cautious flirting. Law and nursing school after graduation took them elsewhere altogether. When he and Foggy landed the internship at Landman & Zack, the occasional glimpes faded right out.

It wasn’t until he landed in a dumpster that this changed.

Lavender and coconut oil, a disbelieving voice saying above his head, “You’ve _got_ to be kidding me.”

Matt _really_ wished he was.  

     



	2. How could we not talk about family when family's all that we got?

“So this is what you’re doing when you’re not checking in with my mom,” said Claire, her tone still heavy with disapproval and disbelief.

“It really wasn’t part of a plan,” Matt said tiredly. He had just returned after reuniting the kidnapped boy and his father and there wasn’t a hair on his body that didn’t hurt.

“Huh,” said Claire, the one word communicating _volumes_ of her opinion. “So what _was_ your plan? If you weren’t getting your face bashed in?”

Matt sighed and let his head fall back on the couch armrest. Cat, furniture polish, litter box, distilled alcohol. Weariness dragging on him like chains. “I have my own firm now,” he told her. “I started it just recently, not even two weeks ago. With Foggy, you remember him?”

Claire snorted above his head. “Of course I do. He singlehandedly ate most of our Christmas tamales that one year. Mom still sends his family some every Christmas.”

“We’re Nelson and Murdock, attorneys at law,” Matt said. Just saying it made him uncomfortable, like he was impersonating some other lawyer, who didn’t walk the streets and have blood on his hands.  “We…we just got an office. And a secretary, she was our first client, her name’s Karen…”

“You’re rambling,” Claire muttered, starting to stitch him up a little faster. “Probably due to blood loss. That’s not good.”

“I think I’m okay so far,” Matt said, though his tongue felt thick.

“Your magic ears tell you that?” Claire retorted.

A wheezing laugh escaped him, though his ribs strained at the outburst. “They’re not—ow _—magic_ ,” he protested feebly. “Just…enhanced.”

Claire’s hands passed carefully his torso. “So that accident when you were a kid,” she said slowly, “the chemicals in that truck. That’s how your senses got all…?” He could hear the air moving as she waved her hands in what he assumed was an all-encompassing gesture to all of… _him_.

“It hurt like hell,” he remembered distantly. “My dad kept telling me to close my eyes, but I didn’t want to. The last thing I remember is—” the words caught in his throat, the hazy memory flickering in and out. “Is his face and the sky behind it.”

Above him Claire was very still. Then she breathed out deeply through her nose, slumping slightly in her chair. “My mom was always worried about you,” she said finally.

“So you’ve told me,” Matt said.

“No, like even before the accident,” Claire corrected him. “She would always look out for you in Mass, make sure you were there, even if your dad wasn’t. She…she wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Can’t imagine why,” Matt mumbled and Claire replied, “Can’t you?”

At his silence, she went on: “When you’d come over our house after school, and you’d look so _lost,_ I thought my mom would break her heart for you. I think I wanted to treat you like a regular kid, so she’d stop worrying so much.”

Matt blinked at this revisionist history. “You made me hold your hand when we crossed the street.”

“You were _blind,”_ Claire said as Matt retorted, “I had a cane!”

“My mom worried,” Claire said again. “She’s Puerto Rican; literally all they do is worry about things that don’t concern them.” Another weak laugh left Matt’s lungs as Claire went on, “And she’d always tell me, ‘Claire, _mija_ watch out for Matt, because he doesn’t have anyone. You should always watch out for people who don’t have anyone. So if you’re ever on your own, someone will come and help you.’” Matt heard her shift in her seat, imagined the dryness of her glance. “And I don’t really think _this_ was what she had in mind.”

Matt was too tired to laugh. He just let his head fall back, concentrated on his breathing. “Think I’ll make it home tonight?”

“If you promise not to pull my stitches,” Claire replied.

“That much I can do,” he assured her.

* * *

 

“You should probably go see my mom,” Claire told him days later, in her friend’s apartment, with her now well-used first aid kit and sterile gloves.

Matt tilted his head in her direction. “I’ll see if I can pencil it in, between looking for the Russians.”

“Don’t be difficult,” Claire said without heat and with a certain kind of amusement. “My mom would love to see you; plus, I’ve been dodging her calls for the better part of a week and occasionally sending her texts. I can only do it for so long until she sends the ladies at church out after me.”

Matt smiled at this. “Did you tell her you were staying with someone?”

He couldn’t see it, but the look Claire gave him was _rich_ with the kind of amused disbelief only the people with well-loved, meddlesome parents could give those who weren’t as (un)fortunate.  “Tell her what, exactly? I’m hiding out from the Russian mob in my co-worker’s apartment, while the boy she used to babysit takes on criminals at night while wearing a mask?”

“Point taken,” Matt said with a sigh. The needle pulled tight, finishing one more stitch. It was easy for him to lightly cup her elbow, let his fingers trace the line of her bone and feel of her skin.  This late at night, she smelled of sleep and dryer sheets. “You know it’s not for much longer though, right?”

“So you say,” was all Claire allowed.

So he _hoped_ , he wanted to tell her, but did not. The trust they were building was tenuous at best and he wanted her to believe in him, believe in what he could do. Her belief in him gave him something like hope.   

* * *

 

“So,” Claire said tiredly one morning, “you going to see my mom yet?”

Matt peered at her, as best an approximation he could manage. “I’m not sure this is best time for this discussion.”

He could feel the force of her glare. “And when, exactly, would be a good time for me to let my _mother_ know I’m not dead in a ditch or at the bottom of the river, now that I’m hiding out from the Russian mob in the apartment of the little boy she used to babysit?”

“It might be an improvement of the situation,” Matt half-joked and Claire snorted loudly at this. She let her forehead settle against her hands.

“I need to see my family,” she said finally.  “I just—I need to, okay? Can I do that? Is that _okay?_ ”

“Claire,” Matt said softly, going to kneel at her side, “Claire, of course. Whatever—” he took a deep breath, slightly shocked by how easily the words were about to come out, “whatever you need.”

He could do this for her, he told himself. This much he could do, when Claire had done so much for him already.

Claire’s hand, cool and dry, brushed his cheek. She let her fingers curl into the short hairs at his temple before gently pulling him forward. With great care, she kissed the corner of his mouth, so her cut lip wouldn’t hurt at the contact and pressure. “Thank you,” she murmured into his mouth.

If things were different, she hadn’t pulled him out of the dumpster, if he hadn’t led the Russians to her door, if they had found each other in the ordinary way, in a coffee shop, at church, anywhere else than where they had, Matt thought he would’ve taken her out on a proper date. Somewhere nice, somewhere quiet; a small island of peace in Hell’s Kitchen. If she had stayed over and slept in his bed with him next to her, this conversation could’ve been meaningful. It made him hurt, made him ache to think of what _could’ve_ happened.

 

* * *

“ _Ay, mija_ ,” scolded Mrs. Temple as Claire walked through the door, Matt by her side. “Why do you have that cell phone if you don’t use it to call me, eh? And—” she took in her daughter’s somewhat battered appearance, “what happened to you, _mijita_? Were you in an accident?”

Claire sighed and carefully kissed her mother’s cheek. “I was, Ma, but Matt—”

“Matt Murdock!” said Mrs. Temple as if she had _just noticed_ he was standing beside her daughter, turning to glare. “What do you mean not seeing me all these years?”

Matt came forward and shyly kissed her cheek. “I’m sorry Mrs. Temple,” he said sincerely. “Life has been crazy since I graduated law school.”

“You have a firm now?” Mrs. Temple asked, guiding them both to the table. “Sarah Nelson tells me you and Foggy have a firm together—Marcus, _mijo_ , set the table—and you’re helping Elena Cardenas, aren’t you? I see her in church—Claire, _mija_ sit down, you look terrible—and she was telling me about and I asked her if it was _our_ Matt Murdock—Stephen, come and eat!—and she _said_ it was and you’d grown up even more handsome, though she says Foggy is—”

“Ma, _breathe,_ ” said Claire, guiding Matt to a chair. “We haven’t even been here for five minutes.” 

“How else am I supposed to tell you everything?” asked Mrs. Temple indignantly. “Sit down next to Claire, Matthew.”

“Ma,” said Claire again, as Matt lowered himself into the empty chair besides her, “Matt just came to have dinner and check in, okay? Don’t make it a big deal.”

Mrs. Temple huffed. “ _Ay_ , you young people and your ‘no big deal.’ My only daughter comes in looking half beat with her friend who is a man and says it’s _‘no big deal,’_ what _is_ a big deal I’d like to know—”

“Lupe,” said Mr. Temple calmly, sitting down at his place at the head of the table, “will you sit, please, so we can eat in—more or less—peace?”

Another huffing sound. Matt could hear Claire’s teeth beginning to grind, so he quietly reached out and intertwined their fingers. Her surprise telegraphed as the slightest jump in her seat, but her jaw relaxed and some of the tension went out of her shoulders.

Mrs. Temple cleared her throat pointedly but Matt didn’t let go of her hand and Claire made no move to pull free.

* * *

 

Probing questions and no doubt pointed glances aside, dinner passed more or less peacefully. Eventually, Matt did have to let go of Claire’s hand, but she stayed by his side and he let his fingers rest on the pulse point in her elbow.

“It just occurred to me,” said Mrs. Temple, once the table was beginning to be cleared, “that I kept meaning to show it to you, _mija_ , but you’re never around anymore—”

“Thanks ma,” Claire said dryly.

“It’s an old video recording,” Mrs. Temple continued, ignoring her daughter, “of you and Matt when you were children, when he was staying with us.”

“Oh my _god_ Ma,” said Claire, sounding more than slightly horrified, “you _recorded_ us?”

“Of course I did,” said Mrs. Temple, as if it should’ve been obvious. “How else was I supposed to remember?”  

By the sound of it, Claire had put her face in her hands; her voice was slightly muffled as she said to Matt, “For whatever’s about to happen, I am _so sorry.”_  

“You can stay for a bit longer,” Mrs. Temple said calmly and cheerfully, and Matt abruptly had the suspicion Mrs. Temple had been waiting a very long time for this opportunity.

They were more or less herded like sheep to the slaughter to the living room, Claire gripping his elbow like a lifeline. “Ma, how exactly is Matt supposed to—”

“He can still _hear_ , can’t he?” Mrs. Temple replied as if this should’ve been obvious. “Matt, you don’t mind, do you?”

“Ma,” said Claire, her voice nearly a growl, as Matt gave the hand on his arm a quick squeeze in reassurance.

“Its fine, Mrs. Temple,” he said, resigned. There really was no escape from this.

He could hear the grinding of the ancient VHS player starting as the Temples fussed over the TV and Claire and himself sat on the sofa, Claire burying her face in his arm. “I’m so sorry,” she said again, sounding utterly miserable.

“It can’t be _that_ bad,” Matt replied, trying to reassure her, but she shook her head.

“Do _you_ remember the fights we had?” she asked and Matt couldn’t help but wince as recollection came back to him.

“It’s starting!” shouted Marcus Temple with far too much glee, clearly enjoying his older sister’s discomfort.

“Marcus I’m gonna smack you,” growled Claire as the screen abruptly came to life. The sound of his nine-year-old self’s voice made Matt jerk in his seat, as Claire tightened her grip on him.

“ _I told you to go away,”_ said the nine year old Matt to Claire, voice exasperated and utterly put out.

“ _Go away_ where?” Nine year old Claire replied indignantly. “ _You’re in_ my _house!”_

_“Somewhere else! How am I supposed to read if you keep bothering me?”_

_“How do you read that anyway? It’s just a bunch of little bumps on paper,”_ child Claire said, leaning over young Matt’s shoulder.

 _“It’s Braille brainless,”_ said Matt exasperatedly. “ _It’s how blind people read.”_

 _“Can you teach me?”_ was the eager question.

“ _No,”_ came the flat reply.

 _“You have to,”_ Claire replied stubbornly.

“ _No I don’t.”_

_“Yes you do.”_

_“No I don’t!”_

_“Yes you_ have to!” Claire’s child voice rose in exasperation.

_“Why should I?!”_

_“Because I say so,”_ Claire replied mulishly. _“Because I’m your girlfriend.”_

The adult Claire made a strangled sound deep in her throat and Matt felt his face flame when hearing his nine-year-old self’s outraged response.

“ _You are NOT MY GIRLFRIEND.”_

_“Yes I am I say so!”_

_“Well I_ don’t _say so, you crazy person!”_

Shocked silence and then—sniffling. Yes, she had started crying. Matt remembered that.

“ _Don’t—don’t_ cry,” said Matt’s former self, appalled.

“ _You can’t call people crazy,”_ said the child Claire sadly and sniffling. “ _That’s_ rude.”

“ _Well, so is telling people they have to be your boyfriend.”_ The children on the screen were silent for a moment, thinking this over.

“Ma, for the love of God, why didn’t you stop us?” Claire asked, still appalled.

“It was _funny,”_ was the brutally cheerful response and Matt just sort of sagged back into the couch in defeat, Claire doing the same.

“ _Look,”_ young Matt said, clearly wishing to have this silly female crying nonsense over with, “ _if I teach you Braille, will you stop bothering me? And quit saying you’re my girlfriend.”_

 _“You don’t want me to be your girlfriend?”_ asked the child Claire puzzledly. The adult Claire made another dying sound.

“ _Not until we’re older,”_ the nine-year-old Matt said firmly. _“Like,_ way _older. Thirty,_ maybe.”

“Mary mother of God,” Matt muttered, because even without sight he could feelthe satisfaction and expectancy _radiating_ from Mrs. Temple.  Claire was practically sinking through sofa and into the floor, so no help from that quarter, Matt thought. The recording ended there and Matt could pretty clearly hear Marcus not so quietly dying of laughter somewhere in the back of the room. Mr. Temple was there too, shaking his head at his wife’s antics.

Deciding enough was enough for one evening, Matt found his cane and levered himself upright, Claire instantly joining him. “Thank you for the dinner, Mrs. Temple,” he said as politely as anyone could when they were wishing for a nice deep hole to crawl into, “it was lovely. I’ll be busy for the next few weeks, but I’ll be back for dinner some time.” _Eventually._    

* * *

 

After making their escape into the night and back in Matt’s apartment, Matt took out two beer bottles and offered one of them to Claire, who accepted instantly.

“So we’re never talking about this again,” she said matter-of-factly, taking a deep draft.

“Talk about what?” Matt said instantly, noting with relief Claire’s chuckle.

“She means well,” Claire said with a sigh, sort of collapsing onto the couch, Matt joining her on the other end. “She _really_ does. It’s just…her execution is sometimes lacking.”

“She wants you to happy,” Matt said softly. “I can’t blame her for that.” Silence between them for a moment before he asked, “Was I _really_ that annoying?”

Claire laughed, throwing her head back. “Was _I?_ ”

“I didn’t understand why you paid so much attention to me,” Matt said.

“Oh don’t you?” said Claire, her voice dry as dust.

Another pause. “You didn’t—” Matt started to say, slightly alarmed to find he wasn’t done blushing this evening.

“You were a cute kid, Murdock,” said Claire, wryly amused. “And _I_ had eyes.”

“Oh,” Matt said foolishly and Claire chuckled.

“Yeah well, nine year olds aren’t known for their subtlety,” she said. “Or patience.”

Slowly, carefully, Matt reached out and pulled her legs into his lap, letting his hands run slowly up and down the length of her calf. “I think—I _know_ I liked you,” he told her. “For the longest time. But—”

“The timing was never right,” Claire sighed. “I get it, I do. I still count the day I met you at Columbia as one of the luckiest of my life.”

He tried very hard to keep his voice even. “Even now?”

“Even now,” she assured him quietly and he held the words close to his heart like gold.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the real reason I wrote this au tbh


	3. we've come a long way from where we began

“Why don’t I see Matt anymore, _mija_?” Mrs. Temple asked Claire one evening. “You came for dinner that one night and I didn’t see him again.”

Claire sighed, pushing aside the load of laundry she was helping her mom fold. “He’s busy, Ma. We both are.”

Mrs. Temple made a ‘ _tcha’_ sound, displaying her impatience for such a prevarication. “You’ve been saying that for the past six years.  When will you _not_ be busy?”

Claire did not reply, but kept folding her brother’s t-shirts with grim determination. Nelson and Murdock had put away Fisk, Daredevil kept him from escaping into the night. By all accounts, the battle had been won.

Except it _had_ not been. Not by _her_ account.

The trouble with Matt Murdock, Claire told herself, snapping a shirt smooth, was that he took direction _entirely_ too well. It seemed an unreasonable, even absurd thing to resent him for, keeping his distance from her when she _asked_ him to, but there it was. He would quietly come through her window if he needed patching up, but he smiled at her like she was a stranger. A stranger who had saved his goddamn _life_ multiple times and Claire did not appreciate the sentiment.

Claire did not to lie to herself; she had not loved Matt Murdock. It hadn’t gotten that far between them. But that was the whole trouble, wasn’t it, it _never_ got that far. She _could have_ , and as more time went by, thinking about all the chances that went by them since they were children, in college and now when they’d met again, she was starting to get sick of it, all the missed chances, the would have been and the could haves. 

Mrs. Temple sighed, drawing Claire’s attention. “I remember when you were children,” she said. “Your father and I tried to make sure we treated Matt as normally as we could, even if he was blind. I was so glad and proud when you followed our example.” She chuckled, a bit ruefully, “Maybe a little too well.”

Claire watched the sunshine fall from the window in the living room onto her mother’s head, burnishing dark hair like Claire’s own, only with fine threads of silver running through it. “You steadied him,” Mrs. Temple, folding a fitted sheet with the kind of precision Claire had yet to learn after twenty-odd years. “You never babied him because of his sight, but you watched out for him. He gentled you, respected your strength.” She sighed, softly sad and melancholy. “I thought God made the two of you for each other,” Mrs. Temple said quietly. “I think it still, _mijita linda.”_

 _You shouldn’t_ , said the memory of Matt’s voice, but now Claire wondered if he was saying it to himself as much as he was to her. 

Claire sighed and got up, dropped a kiss on her mother’s head. “Thank you, _mamá_ ,” she murmured. 

* * *

 

The next Matt came through her window, outlandish and fierce in his red outfit, Claire got out her usual bag and gloves, patched him up, as she promised him she would. Tonight wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been; he had been practically untouched. She didn’t even have to stitch him up this time. Instead, she gently probed his ribs for fractures and said, “I think you and I should get a drink.”

With anyone else, there would’ve been a startle of surprise, but it was Matt, so there was only a slight tension of his muscles. (He needed to keep that damn shirt on; him bare-chested did terrible things to her train of thought.) “I could do with a bottle of water,” he offered cautiously.

She prodded a bruise; he yelped. “Don’t be obtuse,” she said. “I meant you and I should _go out_ and _get_ drinks. Do something that doesn’t end in one of us getting half beat to death.”

Matt out let a breath, very carefully keeping his face neutral. “I thought you and I agreed not to complicate things.”

Claire leaned back, peeling off her gloves; she didn’t need them anymore tonight. “When have things _ever_ been uncomplicated between us?”

“Fair enough,” he conceded, not loosening his white-knuckled grip on her chair. “You said you couldn’t—see yourself…falling in love with me.”

“If you were going to turn into men like Fisk,” Claire corrected him. Figures he would mishear that. “Are you?”

The grip did not loosen, she wondered if the wood would snap under his hand. “No,” he breathed out, closing his eyes. “I will not. I—I _can’t._ Not if I—not if I have people with me.” He was silent for a while, letting Claire put her equipment away. “Someone—an old teacher of mine, he told me once I would have to—to cut myself off from people, if I wanted to be good at what I choose to do. Not to form attachments, push people away. And I _tried_ to do that, even if I wasn’t aware of it. But I only ended up nearly ruining my relationship with Foggy and—and Karen. And you.”

Claire wanted to object (he hadn’t pushed her away, but let her _walk_ away from him and it never ceased to amaze her that he accepted it without question or protest), but let him keep talking. “I can’t—I don’t _want_ to be cut off from the people that I love,” Matt said, as if he couldn’t stop the words from coming, didn’t want to stop them. “Maybe that makes me less effective at what I do, but it keeps _me_ sane.  More than sane, it keeps me human.” His head tilted in her direction, sightless eyes tracked uselessly. “If being with people—with you is weakness, I am not interested in strength,” he said and something broke and mended in Claire’s heart.

She put one hand on his cheek; the other rested on the wound that might’ve taken him away from her, her fingers traced it lightly. A minute shiver rippled through him, but he didn’t move. She let that hand trace upwards, fingers skimming carefully over muscle and scars, settle on his heart.

“So that’s a yes to a drink?” she asked gently and a laugh escaped him, soft and startled and happy. 

“That’s a yes,” he confirmed and turned his head to kiss the center of her palm still resting on his cheek. 

* * *

 

“I guess its official now,” said Mrs. Temple, almost bursting with satisfaction. “If he’s coming for Christmas.”

Claire blinked at her mother, distracted by her upcoming thoughts about getting Matt a Christmas tree. A real one, he would like the pine smell if they kept it well-watered, she thought. “Ma, he’s been over for Christmas before,” she reminded her mother. “Since we were in college. Since we were seven,” she remembered, recalling one Christmas his father had brought him, when they were both too young to recall it.

“Then it’s been official since you were seven,” retorted Mrs. Temple.

“Ma, _no_ ,” said Claire exasperatedly. “That is _not_ how this works.”

She was ignored. “You’ll have the most adorable babies,” said Mrs. Temple happily, lost in visions of grandmother-hood.  “Do you think they’ll have red hair?”

Claire had a sudden vision of a child with a tangle of untidy reddish brown curls and wide hazel eyes that could look gold in some lights.  The thought made something squeeze inside her chest. “…Maybe,” she finally allowed. “Ma, we’ve only been together for six months.”

“You’re not getting any younger, _mija_ ,” her mother replied cheerfully. “When I was your age, I already had _you_.”

Claire sighed. “We’re not rushing this Ma,” she said firmly. “We’re taking it slow, and _yes_ , he’s coming over for Christmas. We’re spending New Years’ with the Nelsons, though.”

“I know,” said Mrs. Temple, stirring the pot of beans on the stove. “So are we. Sarah invited us.”   

And Claire sighed, knowing that this, more than anything else, made it official.


	4. good things we've been through, that I'll be standing right here talking to you

“ _Ay que chulo niños,”_ Lupe Temple crooned at the two sleeping babies in the bassinet. “Hi babies.”

“Don’t wake them up,” Stephen Temple murmured softly behind her. “Claire just got them to sleep.”

“They’ll be glad to see me,” Lupe retorted. But she let her husband come up behind her and settle his hands on her shoulders. “How’s Claire?”

“Asleep herself,” Stephen replied. “Matt made her go to bed. He’s with her now.”

Lupe chuckled. “ _Ay,_ poor Matthew. I don’t know who the labor was worse for, him or Claire.”

“Be fair, Lupe,” Stephan said with a smile. “No one was expecting twins.”

Lupe sighed happily. Two healthy grandbabies, a boy and a girl. The boy was older by five minutes, the girl was quieter. Their parents had almost collapsed with shock and joy when the doctor announced it, and now the family got to bask in the wonder of their children. Foggy must’ve sent Claire half the balloons in the hospital; Karen sent the other half.

“And Maria Vasquez doesn’t even _have_ grandchildren yet,” she told her husband. “So _ha.”_

Stephen shook his head at his wife’s long-standing rivalry with one of her neighbor ladies. “I’m sure Claire will be pleased to hear that,” he said dryly.

“So don’t tell her,” she retorted and went back to happily gazing at her twin grandchildren.

Stephen gazed down at them himself, face softening. “What were the names they decided on?”

“Jonathan Franklin and Sophia Grace,” Lupe said. “Good, strong names. Foggy’s going to be the godfather, of course. And Karen is Matt’s choice for godmother.”

Stephen chuckled. “They’ll be reading law texts before picture books.”

“Probably,” Lupe said contentedly.

The Murdock twins stirred in their sleep, snugged side by side. Lupe let one finger stroke the crowns of their heads, already dusted with dark hair.

“ _Gracias a Dios,”_ she murmured and meant it with the whole of her heart.           

      

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the amount of time clowsan and I have spent coming up with headcanons for the Murdock twins could be a novel within of itself tbh. thank you to everyone who read, commented and left kudos. this story was a joy to write because of your enjoyment.

**Author's Note:**

> much thanks to clowsan, who conceived this au with me. hope you like, my dear :)


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